Isabel the Fair

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  She had died on St. Valentine’s Day with her head on the sweet-scented cushion, and Isabel and small Ned could only be thankful that she had received their message of love.

  Isabel held her new girl-child to her heart, for some strange reason finding more comfort in her than she had found in either of her sons. Perhaps it was because she herself had become more mature.

  “Where is the dear lady to be buried?” asked Bringnette.

  “In her own Grey Friars church, and clad in a habit of the Franciscan order as she always wished. Her elder son is having her body brought to London, and the King has ordered yards and yards of that lovely striped lucca silk to cover her coffin on the journey. The very best the Italian merchants can produce.”

  “Why yards and yards, Madam?” asked Ghislaine, taking the baby to the wet nurse to be fed.

  “It seems it is a custom in this country for each church where the bier rests for a night to keep the pall, so if it is a long journey several palls are needed,” Isabel told her listlessly.

  “He loved her as though she really were his mother,” sighed Bringnette.

  “Say rather as an elder sister. Poor sweet, she was only thirty-six — not so many years older than I. And how I shall live without her — ” Isabel broke down then and Bringnette hastened to comfort her. “There, there, my hinny. Le bon Dieu has given you the babe instead. Perhaps that is why, in His mercy, He sent you a daughter.”

  “Then we will call her Marguerite,” decided Isabel.

  But to her grief she was not permitted to do so. Sincerely as he mourned his stepmother, Edward insisted that his first daughter should be called Eleanor after his niece, and to

  the new Lady Despenser must go the honour of standing sponsor for her at the font. “It is to please Hugh Despenser, but if Edward were here I could still persuade him/ Isabel raged privately to Bringnette. As it was she dared not disobey the King’s instructions, and had to endure his niece’s ill-concealed triumph at the christening.

  As soon as she was strong enough she was not sorry to travel north again, hoping to counteract the younger Despenser’s influence. This time she went with her young family to Brotherton, which Marguerite had loved so well and which, by the arrangement made at their joint betrothal, had now become part of her own dowry. The walls were marvellously strong and the garrison loyal, as Marguerite had told her. Yet while she was there the incredible thing happened. The Black Douglas swooped southwards secretly with ten thousand men hoping to take her and the young heir of England as hostages. It was one of his daring plans which might have succeeded by its very unexpectedness. “Be good, or the Black Douglas will get you!” was a common enough threat made by all mothers to disobedient children, but it was only those north of Yorkshire who experienced any real terror when they said it. To be afraid of such a thing had never occurred to Isabel, yet when she heard of the attempt she realized with horror that had the much-feared man got hold of Ned the Scots could have dictated any terms they liked to his devoted father.

  It seemed almost incredible when Robert le Messager came thudding over the drawbridge to tell the Constable of Brotherton that Douglas’s men had spent the previous night encamped in a wood only a few miles from their walls. A Scotsman sent to spy out the approaches to the castle had been captured by a mightily surprised hunting party, it seemed, and dragged before the Archbishop of York. At first he pretended he did not understand the English tongue but finally, to save himself from torture, the man told the truth and was called an ingenious liar for his pains, until he directed them to the wood to see for themselves. The Douglas, finding himself discovered, had made off as silently as he had come, but not before every man who could be spared in York had been rushed to Brotherton to bring the Queen and her household away. So urgent had their concern been for her and for her children that half her possessions had been left behind, and after a night’s rest in the Archbishop’s palace she had been taken for greater safety to Nottingham, that massive stronghold in the very centre of England which she hated then and was sure she always would hate. “There is something sinister — something ill-omened — about this place,” she had said, shivering and drawing her cloak about her as le Messager showed her round the battlements.

  “Nothing half so sinister as might have happened at Brotherton,” he answered laughingly, to rally her.

  Isabel leaned against a merlon of the wall to look over the sunlit countryside. She was trying to rid herself of the foolish antipathy she felt towards the place and to regain her usual gaiety. “Well, it did not happen and your Ghislaine is safe,” she teased. “And now instead of being off at the wars you will see her daily again, being set in charge of us by milord Archbishop’s express commands.”

  “It was of your Grace’s safety we have all been thinking,” he replied stiffly. But she saw the colour mount beneath his sun-tan and wickedly enjoyed the embarrassment of a man whose sworn affections had shifted.

  “And the country’s,” she added, more seriously. “With the King’s heir an hostage I imagine the campaign would have come to an end.”

  “Had the Douglas taken your Grace and the Prince away into the Highlands I doubt if we could ever have found you.”

  “You are right, Robert, and do not think I am ungrateful — although I dare swear the Scots king would have treated us honourably. Milord Archbishop’s parting words to me were, ‘You should make a pilgrimage to the sainted Becket’s tomb at Canterbury, my child, to thank God for such a timely deliverance.’”

  They stood there in the morning sunlight, with the wind ruffling her becoming coif and his curly hair. For the moment they were two young people in serious mood rather than Queen and household officer, and their minds were quick to mutual understanding as they had always been. Presently le Messager glanced at her and said, “You know what men are saying?” and when she looked back at him questioningly and shook her head he added gravely, “I should be an ill friend were I not to tell you, even though you may hate me for it.”

  They were away from court formality, high above the city with the swallows circling about them. They found it easy to speak with complete naturalness, and she knew his reckless passion for the truth. “I could never hate you, Robert, even though you have transferred your heart to Ghislaine. What are they saying?”

  “That the Earl of Lancaster had a hand in it.”

  She swung round on him then with a flash of anger. “My own uncle! Oh, come, Robert — you are as gullible as young Edmund of Kent. My uncle Thomas has always made so much of me, so championed me. Why should he wish to be unfriendly towards me now?”

  “Probably he does not. But he could wish still more to be friendly with the Scots.”

  “Why?” Amazed as she was, Isabel knew that he would not willingly misinform her out of any personal enmity.

  Le Messager shrugged. “To oppose the advice of Hugh Despenser whom he loathes, perhaps. Or to create a powerful party of his own. After all, he is a grandson of the third Henry and should be a power in the country.”

  “It is true that he has twice refused to fight them,” murmured Isabel, thinking that her master-of-horse might not be so gullible after all. And she recalled how Lancaster had been present when Marguerite had urged her to go to Brotherton, and how he had veered round from wanting to make a display of her to the Londoners and seemed quite glad for her to go. “And it does seem strange that the Scots have spared his land when Northumberland and Cumberland have both been ravaged,” she added thoughtfully.

  “That is what the Despensers are taking care to point out to the King.”

  “And Edward will believe anything of him since he let Gaveston fall into Warwick’s vengeful hands.”

  Her master-of-horse waited until a passing sentry had disappeared out of earshot round the bend of the next embrasure of the wall. “They are telling the King that Lancaster was paid to betray the times and routes of your Grace’s movements to the Scots. They even name the figure.” As she stared at him in shocked si
lence he named it himself. “Forty thousand pounds.” At the sound of more approaching footsteps he gathered up her cloak and lowered his voice. “I suppose that having the laugh over England after all these years would have been cheap at the price.”

  Isabel was too stunned to speak. She turned and allowed him to escort her down the dark winding stairs to her apartments. She began to wonder whether she had so much to be thankful for after all. Life might have been pleasanter in the hands of the chivalrous Bruce than among her own relatives and her husband’s countrymen. “If I go on a pilgrimage to Canterbury it will be mostly for other reasons,” she thought. “To pray for the soul of my beloved Marguerite, and to beg for strength to stop hankering after that capable, over-bearing Welshman.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabel hated every hour of her sojourn at Nottingham. The very efficiency of that key fortress of the Midlands oppressed her. “Why should I feel it to be so full of foreboding?” she asked petulantly, staring down into the cleanly kept bailey.

  “It is probably only the result of the shock your Grace sustained at Brotherton, and all the scurry and anxiety afterwards,” suggested Bringnette, who had herself been badly upset by it. “Such experiences are apt to make one fanciful.” And when the King at last came to join them he, too, was all concern for her. He blamed himself for having sent for her for his own pleasure. “To think that that fool of an Archbishop refused to believe your danger even when he was told,” he kept saying, “and that you might all have been taken as hostages!” But Isabel noticed that his gaze was generally on Ned when he spoke of it, and that he scarcely let the boy out of his sight. “All the same I would have you make a pilgrimage to Canterbury on my account as well as your own. And I will have the children cared for here until I am able to return to Westminster.”

  “Then I pray you keep Robert le Messager to be in charge of them. Going through the peaceful south I shall not need him.”

  “I will. But, do not tire yourself, my sweet.”

  “I can stay and rest awhile at Leeds castle now it is my own,” she said. “Hitherto I have only seen the lovely place in passing on our way home from France.”

  “Then send Lady Badlesmere word to have it in readiness to receive you. Her husband is away, I hear. Somewhere with Thomas of Lancaster.”

  Half the years of Isabel’s marriage seemed to have been spent moving from castle to castle, first because of the barons’ jealous quarrels over Gaveston and more recently on account of these everlasting Scottish wars. The colourful days of plays and pageants and tournaments, the summer jaunts by river in her barge, and the winter evenings spent with music and dancing in the great hall at Westminster or Windsor all seemed to belong to some former, brighter existence. But at the moment she was so out of tune with gaiety that she scarcely regretted them. The loss of Marguerite had cast a lasting shadow over her life and she was not sorry to be going quietly to Canterbury to spend contemplative hours in the solemn hush of the vast old cathedral. She bade Edward good-bye and set forth from Nottingham in the rich sadness of a mild October. And she went with sincere intent to sort out the muddled values of her mind, to seek strength to control the swift surges of her lusts and animosities and to live more gently, as Marguerite would have wished.

  Because she was going humbly as a pilgrim and because she was heartily sick of the sight of men-at-arms she rode beneath russet beech trees and long nut-laden lanes with only a small company of women and servants, having sent John de Jargemoc, her almoner, on ahead to warn Lady Badlesmere of her coming.

  “The sharp-nosed old dragon will be putting the whole household through their paces,” Isabel overheard Ghislaine say laughingly to another of the younger women.

  “Arriving as the new owner of any place calls for so much tact,” she herself confided to Bringnette, being the type of mistress who took pains to make herself liked.

  “To be sure, Madam, we could have wished for a sweeter hostess,” agreed Bringnette, who had frequently had to endure Lady Badlesmere’s ill-tempered jealousy.

  “If only we could have arrived to find the May Queen waiting to welcome us!” sighed Isabel. But, like the rest of them, she was pleasantly tired after the ride, and Leeds castle was looking its loveliest. The grey towers were silhouetted against a pale lemon sunset, with long evening shadows lying across the surrounding meadows, and the bright reflection of the sky still gilding the brooding stillness of the lake where a few belated waterlilies were cupped on the flat green tables of their leaves.

  “It is like a fairy castle out of some old Provencal legend!” exclaimed Ghislaine ecstatically. “So peaceful, so inviting.”

  The Queen and her ladies reined in their tired horses and waited in a bright-hued bunch at the far end of the long causeway which led across the lake to the main gateway. They were quite content to survey the pleasing scene and to enjoy the prospect of a good supper. But although they could see the westering sunlight glinting on the helmets of men-at-arms moving about the battlements, as yet no one had thought to haul down the Badlesmere standard floating aggressively from the keep, and the great oak doors deep in their stone archway still remained shut.

  “They are too busy getting out the best bed linen and basting the boar to notice us,” suggested a young ward of Edward’s.

  “And perhaps old Baddy herself is stuck half in and half out of that tight puce velvet we always had to help her fasten,” giggled a very young tiring woman irreverently.

  Isabel, full of fellow-feeling, pretended not to hear the impertinence and ordered her herald to sound a fanfare. But when the great doors were opened at last and the drawbridge lowered it was neither chatelaine nor seneschal who stood there to receive them — only fat old John de Jargemoc, his hands fidgeting nervously with the cord of his habit and his face unusually red against the silvery hair encircling his tonsure. He stood uncertain between a couple of joking men-at-arms, then began to waddle quickly out across the causeway while, to the mystification of the waiting party at the other end, the gates closed again behind him. Aware of the expectant hush and of all the curious eyes upon him, he went down on his knees in the dust beside the Queen’s horse. “Madam,” he gasped, sorely out of breath, “shamed am I to bring so impudent an answer — ”

  “From Lady Badlesmere? Is she sick?”

  “Far from it, your Grace. She shouted at me from an upper window. ‘While my lord is away I open the castle to none without his orders,’ she bawled. ‘Go tell the Queen that if it be a night’s lodging she is wanting she had best seek it elsewhere.’”

  In the still evening air his incredible message was audible to all, and horrified amazement held them still as statues. Never had they imagined that any person would dare speak so to a King or Queen. Isabel’s face flushed as if some varlet had struck her, then paled to anger. “Ride forward to my gates and demand that they be opened in the King’s name,” she ordered briefly. “What we have hitherto asked with courtesy we now demand.” And setting her horse in motion she fearlessly led the way. Her retinue crowded after her. In their fervour some of the menservants even took it upon themselves to scramble before her that they might batter at the door, and young Thomeline, who was never far from his mistress’s side, dodged between them to hold her bridle lest her horse should shy or stumble on the rough stones. But when the company were half-way across they were startled by a sharp whirring sound through the air and, before the Queen could recall them, half a dozen of her men were pierced by a slick rain of arrows from the battlements.

  Being completely unarmed, they dropped dead where they fell, blocking the narrow causeway, and the arrow which came nearest to her pierced her Scottish songster’s heart. It must have been a brave man or an exceptionally confident marksman who had dared to aim at a target so near the Queen. Her horse reared, almost throwing her, and as the pawing hoofs came back to earth again Isabel found herself staring down at the dead face of Thomeline, whom she had come to love. He was lying spread-eagled on his back, his smashed
lute beside him, and almost before her women’s screams had ceased she saw his slender body slither over the slippery stones at the edge of the causeway and disappear with a splash into the deep water beneath the green carpet of lily pads.

  So cruel and sudden had been the onslaught that Isabel sat stunned in her saddle until Goodwin Hawtayne, her steward, touched her urgently on the arm. They were a peaceful party of women on pilgrimage, not a beleaguering army, and there was nothing for it but to withdraw before more lives were lost. But grief and indignation raged in Isabel’s heart. Never had she witnessed such unnecessary callousness. Never in all her pampered life had she been treated with such brusque impertinence. Where she slept that night she neither knew at the time nor remembered afterwards. In secret she wept for Thomeline and her other faithful servants, in public she appeared like an angry Medusa because of the insult offered to herself. Canterbury and all good spiritual intentions were forgotten. In the white fury of her wrath she sent immediately to tell her uncle what had occurred. Since the first day of her arrival in England he had never failed to champion her, drawing public attention to her wrongs and associating himself with her consequent popularity. She never doubted for a moment that he would rush to avenge her now. But to her amazement Lancaster took no notice of her plea. Lord Badlesmere was with him, it was said, and they were to form a party strong enough to force the King to rule according to the ordinances and to send the Despensers permanently out of the country. And so Isabel rode back to Westminster and poured out the story of Lady Badlesmere’s outrage to the King. She was sure that he would sympathize with her very charmingly but had little hope that he would drag himself from his own private amusements to do anything about it. Peace was too rare a pleasure, the shameful treaty with Scotland too newly ratified. But to her fierce joy his indignation matched her own.